To mentally challenged, crazy and/or deranged men. No, I won't be your girlfriend.

For reasons which are not clear to me, I am particularly appealing to mentally challenged, crazy and/or deranged men. On a semi-regular basis I am approached by such men inquiring about the possibility of a relationship of some sort. This note is to them.

Firstly, I’m sorry, but no, I do not want to be your girlfriend. I do not want to hold hands with you and I do not want to perform sex acts on you or with you. Particularly not on the city bus. Please do not take this personally as there are very few (read: none) unknown men that I would like to engage in these activities with. Further, I’m going to suggest that there are very few women that would like to engage in these activities with men they do not know.

Secondly, I need to clear something up. Being mentally challenged, crazy and/or deranged does not entitle you to have a girlfriend. More specifically, it does not entitle you to have ME as your girlfriend. In fact, it pretty much disqualifies you from being my boyfriend. Lest anyone think I’m being discriminatory, chronic laziness, an absence of humor, or the belief that “bitch” is an appropriate pet name will also disqualify potential suitors. Again, try not to take this personally – chalk it up to my particular and finicky nature.

Finally, to sum up. That you think I’m pretty, is nice. That I remind you of your mother, is nice, assuming it’s not your twisted, mutilated mother, lying dead after you’ve choked the life out of her. That you want to do bizarre sexual things with me and a goat is nic… well, actually no, that’s not nice. That’s sort of deranged and creepy, particularly that you insist on sharing this information with me while repeatedly banging your head with your fist, and staring at me without blinking.

So, mentally challenged, crazy and/or deranged men – I’m here to suggest something. Admiration from AFAR. You know. A distance. Away. On the other side of the bus. That sort of thing.

Thank you for your consideration in this matter.

Damn! Shot down again!

But you look so pretty when you’re showering! And you must be leaving the curtains open on purpose.

Ah, the joys of public transit.

I’ve always wondered . . . when they pee in the seat beside you, does it mean they like you, or they don’t like you, or both.

If I ever get on a bus again, it will be too soon.

URrrgh, whew! You just made me feel lucky to only be a “bum magnet”.

Does theeesssss mean you would not like to be our preeeecioussssss?
Yesssssss… come to ussss, my preciousssss…

God, I could have written that. It’s not just on public transit, too, I recently had a guy walk up to me on the street and ask me if I “had a man”. When I told him honestly that I don’t (I know, I should have told him I was married), he inquired as to whether I was looking for one.

Yes. Yes, I am. And I was definitely walking down the street hoping YOU, some random skeezy guy would offer to be that man. Yay!

The head pounding thing actually happened today.

Working in a facility that has a mental health wing has both ups and downs…

Is it only me, or did anyone else think **Alice ** was referring to dopers who were inundating her with unsolicited email? Even the bit about the bus fitted into this mental schema.

Telling 'em you’re married doesn’t work. Before I got married, I used to wear a ring on the appropriate finger. I’d still get hit on by random men. One went so far as to ask if my husband wanted to watch and/or liked threesomes.

I am so glad I have a car…


It means they have marked their territory, like dogs. You’re as good as married then.

The bus’s in Cleveland are better, or having your child along helps keep em away maybe.

2 years ago, I was walking down my street, some guy looks to be young enough to be my son (not 11, but I AM 45) walks by and say"Do you have a boyfriend?"
I know I shouldn’t have hesitiated, but i said “No,

“Cuz my girlfriend just left me and I am looking.”

I hesitated a few seconds, surprised.
Then walked away.

The voices in my head have ceased since I strangled them to death. No longer my my mental derangement keep me away from women. Though I can’t figure out a way to get rid of their corpes and the smell is overwhelming at this point.


If God didn’t want us to masturbate, he wouldn’t have invented buses.

I drove bus for a while. So many times I’d have to listen to some 40 year old dork talking jive to a high school girl. I worried about it, that maybe the girl would fall for it.

Not so. After he would get off, the girls would talk about what a ditz he is.

But, if you’re actually scared by some weirdo, remember that drivers have radios.

That’s either my new signature, or the title of my autobiography.

And as long as I’m hijacking the thread anyway, I’d like to borrow the thread to make an announcement to guys everywhere:
Um, dude? If I wanted to see your dick, I would’ve asked to. Until then, it’s a safe bet to assume that I don’t. Nothing personal; I’m sure it’s nice and all, but you know, I’ve got one of my own I can look at.

That’s odd. Deranged men hate me.


It puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again…
I know how you feel, and I’m a guy. I’m six four, 320 pounds, and I have a goatee, and yet, despite my best efforts, I look about as threatening as a lamb wrapped in cotten balls, painted a soft fuzzy pink. Or so I would assume from the folks who strike up conversations with me.

Of course it’s never somebody good looking either. Nope, never that cute guy walking down the side walk. I get the splay footed, lazy eyed hunchback wearing army boots and a leopard print speedo with the sloughing skin rash who is in constant communication with the mothership hovering over head that controls all of our thoughts unless he gets a smoke and why won’t the voices stop!

Yep, fly paper for freaks am I. I think it may have something with like attracting like, but I try not to wander down that road.

I only wish they’d wear the army boots and the leopard print speedo or otherwise identify themselves as freaks before I start dating them. It’s the normal looking ones who are the most insidious. I’d link to the mulitple previous threads on the subject I’ve started but there are so many it would kill the hamsters.

You don’t have to be on a bus. I get it at the grocery store, innocently wheeling my little cart around: “YOU! Yeah, you! You’re EXACTLY what I’m looking for!! Do you have a sister who looks just like you, then?” Well, if I did, she, like I, would probably insist on occasional bathing and a few teeth. Nothing beats the guy who reached up under my (shortish) skirt and pressed an ice cold can of soda against my butt. Oh. My. God. I’ve forever regretted that I was so utterly shocked into silence. There have been so many times that I’ve replayed that scene in my poor traumatized head, except that I sink a barbecue fork in his forehead or something.

Also, don’t ever tell them that no, sorry, you’re gay. Trust me on this one. :eek: